


Behind the closed door

by Level_Nightmare



Category: Death Stranding (Video Games)
Genre: Dildos, Double Penetration, M/M, Male Solo, Masturbation, Situational Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-01-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:14:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22268518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Level_Nightmare/pseuds/Level_Nightmare
Summary: In the solitude of his bunker, Higgs can't think of anything but Sam. Unfortunately, he is forced to settle for plastic and rubber surrogates
Relationships: Sam Porter Bridges/Higgs Monaghan
Kudos: 53





	Behind the closed door

**Author's Note:**

> Dear reader, I apologize in advance for the inevitable mistakes that you will find in this story: unfortunately English is not my first language and I helped myself with an online translator. Please keep this in mind and I hope you enjoy reading it as I enjoyed writing it!

Even being able to use teleportation, it has always been difficult for Higgs to manage time optimally. So, rushing into his dingy bunker, he is practically certain that he was late and missed Sam's delivery.

He looks around nervously after lowering the hood of the dripping raincoat and, first of all, observes the monitor that detects the outside to control access to his bunker: nobody.

He could breathe a sigh of relief and make himself comfortable but the arrival of a vehicle that lifts mud and rain from the rough ground makes him quickly understand that his order is coming and that, this time, he will really have to move to not miss a second of his visitor.

So, while Sam gets off the bike and balances the load on his broad shoulders, he grabs one of the monitors and almost tearing it from the messy desk on which it was, he drags it up the narrow stairs that lead to the only room of his refuge, leaving behind a tangle of cables like a long rubber and black plastic placenta.

Panting, he puts it at the foot of the door just as Sam approaches to shelter from the pouring rain and stalls, lowering the hood on his shoulders, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand.

Higgs neurotically leans against the door, his body stretched out, his hands scratching the icy surface: he has mating male at a distance of five, six meters and practically for him it is like being glued to him, so he kisses and licks the door, the reinforced screws pushes the eager hips against the metal to rub the hard and already wet cock against something that makes him sigh.

Sam approaches the bunker entrance, looking around. Calmly he lowers himself on one knee to get rid of the load and pull out from under a pair of crates, the horizontal one, still lukewarm on the outside unaware of the other who, frantically is lifting off those damned clothes letting them slip and roll at the bottom of the stairs to remain naked staring now at the monitor, now at the door.

Sam is out there and he is in there, maybe a couple of meters separate them and his poor, stupid Demens head is lost for the useless reveries for which he lives, for which his heart beats so fast in his chest, his cock so hard and his ass so in need of being obscenely broken through.

Moaning relentlessly, protected by the soundproof bulkhead that separates him from Sam, he slides his hands over his chest, his fingers pinching his pink nipples, pierced by golden chiralium rings. He hooks the precious metal with his fingers, pulls them forward until he feels that bit of pain that makes his cock wet and clench his lower lip between his teeth.

Sam on the other side is back to his feet and is placing the box on the automatically released support: now Higgs can see his robust but dry profile, the rain-beaded suit, the curve at the groin where he can imagine the only cock he can't put in his mouth or hands on and it pisses him off so much.

As Sam delivers his order, he nervously plants his forehead against the metal of the door, his knees spread on the last stone step of the ladder and his eyes lowered to the monitor while with one hand he masturbates furiously. The free one slides behind to widen that beautiful pale ass to angrily rub the fingers on the already disgustingly enlarged and dripping hole.

"Oh Sam, yes, please, again, again!" he murmurs between his teeth, as in a paroxysm of love and anger. The half-closed eyes linger on the figure of Sam who just hangs out while the rain continues to fall outside. The Bridges courier offers him his back now and with folded arms he watches his vehicle being battered by the water. Shift the weight from one foot to the other, under the shapeless overalls there are certainly those muscles that are performing, that sweaty and dirty skin from the long day spent, that smell of male in the middle of his fertile age that he would like to have only for himself, eternally busy spraying his hot sperm in his rotten bowels.

The situation excites and irritates Higgs at the same time: that damned step is uncomfortable, it is impossible to move freely and, above all, he knows he has very little time because Sam has already chosen to leave. So as the courier starts to move away, he craves to reach the climax, moaning like an idiot in the last spasms and licking the door while he ejaculates black oiled cum on the monitor of his only working device, flooding the figure of Sam who has now reached the his bike.

"Fuck you!" Higgs shouts in the fullest of his most angry orgasm, pressing his face against the door as the last splashes come out of his cock and his flabby and throbbing anus release two huge vibrators that roll stupidly down the stairs leaving behind a flow of liquid from the doubtful origin.

Panting wildly, he wonders if Sam's turn was not due to the mess he is making: what did he hear? However, seeing him leave quietly after a few moments relaxes him as much as the subsidence of his heart's throb.

Leave the dirty monitor near the door (he will clean it on another occasion) and go back downstairs to his dirty bunker, naked, with the cock still partially stretched between the thighs, feeling the intestine strangely empty without those two soft pieces of rubber that they had been shaking inside him for a few hours, more or less since he left the last camp of the Demens, forcing his boys to fuck him with them and then put them inside him completely.  
He smiles thinking back to all their hands busy trying to fit huge rubbery tubes into his lousy ass while he moaned and cummed against their shiny, exciting black armor.

And all that time he kept them inside, thinking of Sam, his tongue, his cock, his shoulders that under his hands they would have seemed so strong as he mounted him mercilessly.

He picks them up from the ground and lies languidly on his dirty cot that nobody has ever cleaned from cumshots, rubbing those big rubber glans on his nipples, sighing and moaning that only the security of being alone can give, without the embarrassment of looking like a pathetic, ridiculous human refusal unable to find a cock to enjoy.

He stares at Sam's photos scattered throughout the shelter, vulgarly spreading his thighs to show himself to those immobile and all the same faces, spreading his asshole with his fingers to show him how much it can be filled again, throbbing and still enlarged, swollen like a cunt too used.

As always, after cumming he feels emptied even emotionally, looking for consolation in those toys he never cleaned and that now, after all that treatment, are filthy and disgusting.

One sticks in his mouth, sucking it like an expert whore, pushing it up his throat and letting the saliva that accumulates under his tongue overflow, regardless of the not really fresh smell it emits.

The other one slips between his thighs, guessing after some attempt in which he ends up between his balls, the hole where he must be. He puts it in half and moves it inside, enjoying the idea of being seen so, alone, dirty, sticking fake cocks into the only holes he has, graceless and become retarded by the cum and the chiralium.

He's far from being able to come again, so he remains there waving like a rat impaled on a skewer, moaning and moaning, drooling and dripping from his soft cock against his belly, ending up falling asleep like an idiot with a vibrator who pushes the head against his mouth and the other who continually digs his shitty bowels.

The only sure thing is that when he wakes up he will have to try to clean himself up before putting his clothes back on.


End file.
